The Bite
by Scarred
Summary: John's only a week out of school when he's bitten by a werewolf. A sequel to The Boy and The Skull.


John's only a week out of school when he's bitten by a werewolf. It's late, and maybe stopping by the store wasn't such a good idea after all. Still, they were out of milk, and John wanted to.

Sherlock had told him he should just Apparate. It'd be quicker. But, once again, John had to tell him how he preferred to walk. Sherlock scoffed and returned to his potion-making, muttering "Muggles" underneath his breath. John didn't mind. He knew Sherlock didn't really understand why he wanted to keep to his roots, even when they lived in a predominantly wizarding community. That's why he was studying Muggle medicine and not poking around St. Mungo's for a job.

Although, as John's walking home, he's getting more and more uncomfortable, but he keeps walking, fingers tight around the plastic bag. The milk seems ten times heavier now. John breathes out and looks around. Just a few more blocks, then he's home. It's dark, and the moon is high in the sky. John squints at it and involuntarily shivers. Great. He shakes his head and continues walking. Just concentrate on that.

John passes an alleyway, and, down it, he hears a strained breath, almost like a wounded animal. John pauses and takes a step back, peering into the dark stretch of pavement. There is something here. He hears breathing and something... wet. Like chewing. Disgusting. John adjusts his grip on the bag and sticks his hand into his pocket, drawing out his wand. He takes a few steps further in and mutters, " _Lumos_." The tip of his wand lights up and illuminates the alleyway.

He practically stumbles backwards at the sight.

On the ground is a woman, her clothes torn and disheveled. Her head is turned towards John, and her stare is icy and cold. Her skin is completely devoid of color, and as John's eyes travel down the length of her body, he sees a splash of dark red at her stomach, where a creature is currently at. It's eating her, John realizes. That's what he heard. The woman is dead, he doesn't know how long, and he can't help. Can he?

His presence is noticed, and the creature raises its head. It looks at John, and he shines the light directly on it. John's breath catches. "Bloody hell," he says to the werewolf. The gray animal stares at John, eyes narrowed, focused, and nostrils flared. Its muzzle is speckled with red. John's frozen. Can he run? Is it even possible to outrun a werewolf? Damn it. He should have just Apparated.

John takes a step backward, wand still raised and pointed. The werewolf gets down on all fours, steadying itself. John roughly swallows, and time stops. He's standing in the alleyway, wand in one hand and the milk in another. John can't take the silence. He knows the creature is surveying, cataloging, and John stumbles back. " _Stupefy_!"

He doesn't hit the werewolf, John hears a trash can topple, but it doesn't matter. He scrambles to his feet and sprints as fast as he can. John's left the milk in the alleyway. Shit.

John twists around and flourishes his wand, casting another jinx at the approaching wolf. He hits the thing on the shoulder, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

The werewolf pounces on John, and he falls to the ground. John screams and squirms. His wand is a few feet away from him. He can't reach it. His shoulder is on fire. John thrashes around, but the creature's claws dig deeper into his back, and he screams louder. Can anyone hear him? Is he going to die on this empty road? Fuck! Sherlock! He doesn't know!

He tries to drag himself towards his wand, but the wolf is heavy and biting him everywhere. John can smell blood. So much blood. John lets out a cry as he grabs his wand. He continues to cry out as he twists and stabs the wand over his shoulder. The werewolf whimpers, and some of the weight alleviates. " _Stupefy_!" John shouts, and the werewolf falls back off of him.

It's quiet now. No one is rushing to John's aid. He's alone. John cries some more, lifting a shaky hand to touch his shoulder. It's wet, and when he pulls his hand back, it's glistening with blood. "Christ," he hisses. John struggles to his feet. His entire body is on fire. Every move he makes shoots pain through him. Once on his feet, John lets out shaky breath and looks at the stunned werewolf several feet away. A werewolf. A _werewolf_. John was just attacked by a werewolf. "Oh my god," John gasps, and he looks around. The street is empty, he's bleeding, light-headed, and he just got bitten by a werewolf. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hand to his shoulder, the worst of the bites. Don't cry, don't cry, stop crying.

Baker Street. He has to go home. John turns on the spot and arrives in the sitting room. He lets out a groan as he falls to his knees, his wand rolling away. "Sherlock!" John crumbles to the floor, holding his head in his hands. "Sherlock!"

John hears footsteps run through the flat, and then Sherlock is crouched beside him. "John, what the hell." He touches all over John's back. John winces.

"It stings. Oh, God."

"Let me just." Sherlock doesn't finish his sentence. He rips John's coat off, his shirt, and stops there. John is woozy. He rests his head on the floor, eyes closing. He feels Sherlock move from behind him and go into the kitchen. He's rifling through cabinets. "Powdered silver and dittany. Have to seal the wounds."

John falls asleep.

* * *

Sherlock never bothered to read more about werewolves. He did the assignments given in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but that was it. He'd do more now, though. For John. Hell, how did this happen? Sherlock manages to slather on the silver and dittany before John paled any further. He could barely see the wounds through the volume of blood, but he managed.

He sits there, beside John, a firm grip on his wrist. His pulse is slow, but it's still there. Sherlock eyes John's wand off to the side. The grip has blood on it, no doubt from John, and the tip has fur and blood on it, as well. No doubt from his attacker.

"Oh, John," Sherlock breathes out, bowing his head and shutting his eyes. He squeezes John's fingers and angrily wipes at his eyes.

* * *

John wakes up in their bedroom. The blankets are wrapped around him, like a protective covering. He's sore and feels absolutely sick. John looks over, noticing Sherlock standing off to the side, near the closed door. Is he frightened? He's still John. Right?

"Hey," he says, and his voice sounds raspy. John winces and shuts his eyes. Sherlock doesn't say anything. He stays near the door. John opens his eyes and looks back at him. "I'm... I'm assuming I didn't die. Unless I'm dead now, and this is heaven, which would be strange." Sherlock doesn't laugh, not that John expected him to. John lowers his eyes and curls his fingers into his palm. "I didn't get the milk."

Sherlock is still quiet. He hasn't moved. Which peeves John a little.

He wets his lips and moves his legs, trying to stretch them out. They feel heavy. God. No use. John looks back at Sherlock, watching him. "Thank you," he says. "Without the silver and dittany, I could have—"

"What happened, John?" Sherlock asks, interrupting. He looks at John, and he can see fear in Sherlock's eyes.

John roughly swallows and tries to sit up. It's a struggle, and it hurts, but John does it. He sighs once he's propped up against the headboard. Sherlock still hasn't moved, though he is staring at John. John takes a steadying breath and gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I got bit."

Sherlock drops his eyes, arms dangled at his sides. John looks down, too. "I was walking home, passed an alleyway, and heard something weird. I know I shouldn't have checked, but I did, and." John presses his lips together and stares at Sherlock, who is still staring at the floor. The distance between them is too much. It feels like there are miles from where he is, in bed, and where Sherlock is, by the door. "I couldn't just… not check it out. I don't know what was happening, and." John lifts his hand and presses a palm to his eye. He vigorously rubs. "A woman, Sherlock. Some poor woman was being eaten, and I couldn't help her."

"No use anyway," Sherlock replies softly. John drops his hand and looks over at him, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock's eyes are still on the floor, and John clenches his jaw. "She was already dead, yes? You couldn't have done anything. That creature was probably there when you walked to the shop in the first place, and nothing happened, then, but, no, you just had to—"

"—so you're blaming me for this? Is that what I'm hearing?" John spits out, leaning forward in bed and instantly regretting it. He winces at the pain in his back, but he stays still, staring at Sherlock. "Are you telling me that you wouldn't have investigated? Huh? You would have just ignored whatever was happening in that alleyway and walked on? You?" John laughs and shakes his head. He falls back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're full of it."

Sherlock's reply is silence, and John doesn't know if he prefers that or a smart remark aimed at him. The quiet stretches on, and John almost nods off. He's brought back by a weight dropped on the mattress. John opens his eyes to see Sherlock sitting next to him, eyes wide. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it. John frowns and reaches out his hand, touching Sherlock's. He grabs onto his fingers and squeezes. "We can do this," he mutters, not sounding confident in the slightest.

Sherlock laughs and shakes his head, curling his fingers and getting a better grip on John's hand. "Yes, of course." He looks at John, and it's quiet again. Finally, Sherlock sighs and turns his head away. "We've got a month," Sherlock says, and John thinks Sherlock doesn't sound very confident either.

* * *

Sherlock decorates the flat with posters of the lunar cycle, books about lycanthropy, and various notes that he had viciously scribbled down in hopes of concocting the perfect Wolfsbane Potion. A hoot comes from the window, and Sherlock looks up to see Copernicus resting on the sill, a piece of parchment wrapped around his ankle. Sherlock jumps up and goes over, slipping the letter from the owl. As he reads, Sherlock holds out his hand and lets Copernicus nip at his fingers.

"That your mother?" John asks from his place on the sofa. He's wrapped up in a blanket and a book rests on his knees. Sebastian purrs beside him. "What did she say?"

"She's given me all of her notes on Wolfsbane Potion," Sherlock replies. "Unfortunately, we can't do anything about the taste."

John smiles. "Taste doesn't matter to me."

Sherlock folds the paper and returns to the kitchen. His cauldron is almost overflowing. "I know."

* * *

Telling Harry was easy, but telling his parents was very, very difficult. John meets them in person and decides it's for the best if Sherlock stays at home. They're not completely ignorant of the world John and Harry now lived in, though werewolves and vampires, creatures that were only supposed to be in fantasy stories, might be a bit more difficult to swallow.

His mother immediately cries. "My poor baby!"

His father gives him a stern look. "No."

John shows them the bite on his shoulder. Thankfully, it isn't as red as it was before. Now, it's faded, beginning to scar. His mother reaches out and touches the mark. Eventually, her fingers wander to the other bites along his shoulders. John quickly fixes his shirt and turns back around. "It's okay," he tells them. "I'll be… fine." His mother cries again. "There's this potion I can take. It'll ease the transformations. Won't make them as painful. Sherlock's helping me."

"There's no cure?" His father asks, speaking over the sobs of his wife. "A-a silver bullet? That sort of thing?"

"That would require me dying, Dad."

* * *

When John breaks the news to his parents, Sherlock visits his own. His mother frequently frets, but it's increased today.

"Only seventeen years old. Still children!"

Sherlock shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's not unusual for this to occur," he starts to protest.

"If it was back when the Dark Lord was running around, Sherlock! Not in this age!" She shakes her head and moves around the kitchen, waving her wand and straightening up the dishes. "Only seventeen years old," she mutters. "Think they know everything. Growing up too fast."

Lowering his hand from his face, Sherlock shakes his head and looks around the kitchen. "Where's Bunsen?"

His mother pauses and looks over her shoulder at him. She blinks and purses her lips. "Dear, my mother had him before I was even born. You don't really think he was going to stick around much longer, did you?" She stuffs her wand into her robes and moves over to her ingredients cabinet. "Now, come over here. I'll get you what you need."

Sherlock stares long and hard at the table top. After a moment, he pushes himself up from the chair and drags his feet over to the cabinet. "Nobody told me."

"Mycroft was supposed to send you an owl."

* * *

The flat is filled with the most awful smell when John pops into the sitting room. He looks over into the kitchen, seeing Sherlock standing in front of his caldron. He has a mask over his nose.

John shakes his head as he walks in. "Open a bloody window," he says, tossing an arm up to cover his nose. "You're going to suffocate Sebastian and Copernicus. How has Mrs. Hudson not noticed yet?"

"They're upstairs. They're safe. And she has. She whole-heartedly understands. Did you get the milk?"

"Yes."

* * *

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could live forever?" Sherlock waits with bated breath as John shifts around in bed. He turns on his back and looks over at Sherlock, who pulls the covers closer to his mouth.

John huffs out a breath and reaches out an arm, haphazardly throwing it over Sherlock's shoulders. He pulls him closer, shutting his eyes as he buries his face in his neck. Sherlock rests his hand on John's back, fingers stretching and creeping across bite marks and bite marks.

"Not like this."

* * *

It's a week until the full moon, and John looks down at the glass in front of him. The potion gives off a faint blue smoke. John wrinkles his nose and glances up at Sherlock. "I trust you."

Sherlock nods and pushes the glass further across the table. "I know. Go on. Number one of seven."

John grimaces and lifts the potion, tossing the contents down his throat. He gags, but he manages to keep it down, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth. He takes a moment to lower his hand, and he looks over at Sherlock, nodding. "Oh, yeah, yeah. That's… good." Sherlock laughs, and John does, too.

* * *

It's silly and dramatic, but Sherlock still gives John a very long kiss that evening. He cradles John's face in his hands and stares at him, and John shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "Don't," he starts, and Sherlock kisses John again.

Minutes later, Sherlock shuts the bedroom door, and he hears John lock it shut on the other side. He slides down the door and lands on his arse. Sherlock's head thuds on the door, and he grips his wand. He taps the piece of wood against his leg and tries to drown out the sounds that are coming from behind the door. John's limbs are extending, twisting into something that isn't him at all. Sherlock presses a palm to his face and points his wand towards the door. He wants to silence it, not let the entire street know that there is _something_ hiding in 221B Baker Street. But before he gets the chance to sort out his thoughts, the grotesque noises stop.

There's a soft whine by the door. Sherlock turns slightly and presses his forehead against the door. From the other side, it sounds like John rams his head into the doorframe. Another whine comes out. Sherlock can't help but laugh.

He sits there for a few minutes, listening to John whine and walk around the bedroom. Sherlock carefully crouches, pressing his eye into the keyhole. He watches as John, a great gray wolf, stalks around the room. John butts his head against the bed frame, but it doesn't seem to be an attempt to harm himself. John looks calm, collected. He even has that look in his eye. The only thing that is different is, well, the wolf bit.

Sherlock tightens his grip on his wand as he stands up. He points it at the doorknob and mutters, " _Alohomora_." The door clicks, and Sherlock steps inside.

Wizard and wolf meet eyes in the room, and neither of them moves. John has stopped whining, which Sherlock takes as a good sign. He breathes in and slips his wand through one of his belt loops. Crouching again, Sherlock slowly opens his arms. Maybe this was a mistake, he thinks, as John starts to walk towards him. Any sane person would still be frightened to confront a werewolf, even one who drank a Wolfsbane potion.

It's only a matter of seconds before John is standing in front of Sherlock. He gives him a tentative smell. Sherlock watches his nostrils flare with amusement. "I apologize if my scent appalls you," he says, but John doesn't seem to care. He presses his nose to the side of Sherlock's face, giving his cheek a soft lick. Sherlock screws up his face and laughs. "John!" He lifts a hand to wipe away the moisture, though John licks him again.

Sherlock tosses his arms around John's neck and hugs him, burying his face in his fur. "We can do this," Sherlock says quietly, shutting his eyes and pulling John closer. John lets out a small sound, which Sherlock takes as a sound of agreement.

* * *

The morning comes too soon, and John wakes with sunlight hitting his face. He lazily lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes. There is soreness in his muscles, but nothing he can't handle. John sniffs, clears his throat, and turns over. Sometime during the night, Sherlock had urged him to get on the bed. They had fallen asleep there, Sherlock draped over him.

Not much has changed.

John studies Sherlock as he sleeps, face cleared of all worry and apprehension. He stretches out his hand and brushes the backs of his fingers down his face. "We can do this," he mutters, and he feels much more confident than the day before.


End file.
